The Best Mistake I Ever Made
I lived in a condo next to a highway easement that was a wild mass of weeds, trees and wildlife. The fence next to this expanse of urban open space was a freeway for squirrels hopping from redwood to redwood. One day I noticed a massive, dirty, long-haired cat walking on top of the fence. He had a face the size of a huge grapefruit and almond shaped eyes. Not friendly at all, he ran as soon as opened the door. There were a number of cats in the complex and to keep this poor guy out of trouble I put food out for him in my backyard. After 6 months of watching food disappear, patiently waiting for him to come and gently talking to him, he finally let me sneak a scratch on the ears. The flood gates opened. Within a few weeks he was as friendly as could be, loved to be scratched, slept in a makeshift shelter on the patio and was always on time for breakfast and dinner. By this time I'd named him Bear and taken a picture of him lying on the rug in the house.
While I was concocting my plan to trap him and fix him, he disappeared. I waited a week hoping to see him. No cat. So, I put up notices on the complex bulletin boards for a missing cat. Then, thinking that he might have been picked up by Animal Control, I head off to see if they have a fuzzy old tom cat. Lo and behold, if it wasn't Bear in the infirmary with a nasty abscess on his leg. He was a little thinner than normal and a bit scared but he looked just like his picture. The shelter volunteer looked at the picture and confirmed, yep, that's him. I bailed him out to the tune of $250 and took him to the vet where I paid another $300 to get him fixed up and neutered. Now Bear had a home, bed, food, and two new cat siblings who hated him, me and life in general.
Fast forward to a week later when I came home from work and....Bear was on the patio. No wait, Bear was inside the condo, outside, inside. I let the outdoor Bear come in and meet his twin. They circled each other, sniffed each other, and decided to be friends. My neighbor, who knew Bear, came over and we watched in amazement as the two cats sat near each other and looked at us. Their markings were almost exactly the same down to the spots on the side of their noses. About a week later, the outdoor Bear came to breakfast and had a nasty, bleeding abscess on his leg (Can it be the same leg as the other cat? Yes it is!) The outdoor cat was stuffed in a carrier and taken to the vet. Yet another $300 later he was fixed and neutered, and snuggled up with his twin. The new cat needed a name with "bear" in it so he became Sugarbear. From then on Sugarbear was known as "the best mistake I'd ever made".
I don't know that I will find again one cat, let alone two, with the sweet, loving dispositions these two cats had. Sugarbear passed away in November 2007 and Bear passed away Nov 2008. I miss
Saturday, March 13, 2010
Sunday, March 7, 2010
Perro de Oro
He was blond, and like many of that hue he thought he was hot stuff. As such, his
daily patrols covered not only the village where he and many like him frequented
Yelapaʼs small cafes and shops, but he also ventured down the steps, crossed the
river, and traversed the sand spit with its palapa cafes and hotel.
The trouble was he only weighed seventeen pounds, and in the beach area there
were fifty-pound black lab, shepherd and mix-breed guardians of the outdoor cafes.
To look at him you could tell that running the gauntlet of the territorials had taken
its toll. His right flank, shoulder and hips had patches where his blond coat no longer
grew, attesting to fights with the larger adversaries. He must have always exposed his
right side; his left side was unscathed. In fact he appeared to be the only part-
Chihuahua on the beach; the rest of his compatriots were content to stay in town and
leave the playa to the big boys.
Yelapa is made up of a sandbar, a stream, and steep forest-covered slopes
where houses, small shops and cantinas are interspersed, then bunched closer
together as the village follows a creek up to its waterfall. In the village and among the
hotels and cafes of the sandbar ranges a floating population of dogs, some of whom
have staked out territories demarcated by collections of white plastic umbrella-shaded
tables, from which crumbs and occasional larger morsels dribble onto the sand. The
smaller the dog, the braver it must be to survive in this melieu.
Thirteen-year-old Elena found him that day panting in the shade of the the hotel
office, blood oozing from a gash in his right hip and another at the front of his ribs. Two
hotel guests said they had heard and seen him being attacked by a black lab on the
sand spit. He had then made his way to the hotel where he sought solace from staff
and guests. Elena and her mom, Kathy had taken a liking to him the day before when
he was much more intact, even hosting him in their room where he exhibited all the
charm that an eight kilogram battle scarred part-Chihuahua could bring to bear. So to
see him in such dire condition demanded action.
The office clerk phoned Pamela Nunez, the only veterinarian in Yelapa, who said
to bring him over right away. Easier said than done; he was hurting badly now and
didnʼt want to be picked up, let alone carried ignominiously past his adversaries, but
there was no choice. Cornered in the office under a chair, he growled and bit at
anyone trying to extricate him. A kindly woman from the yoga group said, ”Iʼm a
healer,” put out her hand and obviously sent the right message because then Elenaʼs
mom was able to lift him and he acquiesced to being carried by her past the beach
guardians, across the river and up the steps to Pamelaʼs clinic.
There the attractive young veterinarian greeted the trio and immediately prepared
for surgery. She asked Elena to hold him while he was sedated and to pinch together
his pulled-apart hide as she first disinfected, then stitched the two wounds. You could
see that the wounds were deep and connected, because as Pamela squirted
disinfectant into one, it seeped out from the other.
“I will keep him here tonight,” the vet explained, “and start him on antibiotics
which he will need to take for thirty days. You can pick him up tomorrow. And please
seriously consider taking him home with you. He will not survive without steady care,
and will just get mauled again if he stays here in Yelapa. I can arrange to have a
certificate of health for him that will permit his transport to the U.S. All you need to do is
to stop at my veterinary friends in Vallarta on the way to the airport. There he can get a
rabies shot and you can obtain a carrier for him to ride on your flight to San Francisco.
How about it?”
Elena looked questioningly at her mom, and she nodded o.k.
A companion dog to their present German shepherd mix, also a rescued dog,
had died a year ago. Now appeared the time to resume their two-dog lifestyle.
“By the way, what do you think his name is?” Elena asked.
“Well, answered Pamela, “I have seen him around town for at least two years and
Iʼm pretty sure I have treated him before. I call him Guerito, little blond.”
“Does he have an owner?ʼ
“Not that I know. He must leave here to survive.”
Asking the hotel staff later, it turned out that there was an owner, but he had
neglected Guerito for at least a year. He tried tying him up. The dog always escaped,
but not before crying piteously. Thus his nickname “Baby.”
When Elena and her mom returned the next day to retrieve him, Pamela wasnʼt
home, Babyʼs cage was open and he was gone. They searched Yelapa, calling, to me
embarrassedly, “Baby,” and he finally appeared from between two houses, ambulatory
and tail wagging. Kathy carried him back to the hotel where began his course of
antibiotics, each pill wrapped in chicken set aside from that dayʼs fajitas.
He spent that night sleeping next to Elena on her bed. But the next day, sporting
two stitched wounds swathed in purple disinfectant, he slipped away, and as they later
found out, to his old haunts in town.
On this latest report of him missing, Pamela put out an all points bulletin on the
Yelapa grapevine for anyone knowing the whereabouts of Guerito a.k.a. Baby, please
notify her. By that afternoon one of the hang-glider pilots had found him by the landing
zone on the sand bar. This time, collared and leashed, he was returned to chickenlaced
confinement. Beginning tomorrow his world would spin with new experiences: a
boat ride, then by taxi through a bustling city, an air journey to a (for him) chilly melieu.
In the morning Baby knew something was up as he watched Kathy empty an
expandable suitcase and line it with a sweatshirt. He complained with growls, nips and
shivers as she tried to place him in the bag tail first. Finally a chicken treat persuaded
Baby to be bagged for the boat ride to Vallarta. Kathy lowered this cargo gently from
the pier into waiting hands in the panga, and despite the hull-slapping trip, Baby
calmed, almost slept in his bag cuddled by Elena on the forty-minute voyage. Ashore
at Playa de los Muertos, led by Elena he trotted happily on-leash on the strand, then
sampled scraps from their breakfast at an open-air cafe.
At the Puerto Vallarta vetsʼ Baby was inoculated against rabies, then outfi tted with
a harness, leash, blue and white polka dot sweater, portable cage and documentation.
Someone remarked he was now “un perro de oro.”
The airport check-in agent accepted Baby in his carrier, stating, “You know this is
a no-frills flight, no meals for people, but weʼll make sure your dog is fed and watered.”
With fingers crossed Elena and Kathy waved goodbye to Baby in his cage as it
moved on the belt through the baggage portal. At the San Francisco airport, there was
no need for trepidation. Baby in his carrier was passed through customs and
immigration without comment.
A day later, Baby had made it safely to Humboldt County and was now content to
stretch asleep on a blanket in front of the wood-burning stove. The chicken treats had
been downgraded to cheese.
Soon they had second thoughts about the name Baby. After all, his medical
certificate listed his breed as “Mixto,” his color ”Miel,” his sex “Macho.” Prolonged
deliberation resulted in modifying Baby to Bobby, and he now patrols the property,
clad in a forest-green Goretex sweater, accompanied by Latte, his female German
Shepherd companion.
Google Dog
A year and a half after Bobby arrived in Humboldt County, Kathy got a call from
a lady who asked, " Am I talking to one of the people who rescued the little white dog
from Yelapa?" With a sinking feeling, Kathy answered "Yes," expecting that the lady
was going to claim Bobby like a birth parent claiming an adopted child. But she was
relieved to hear that Dana Peterson, calling from Minnesota, is pleasant and
complimentary.
Dana said that she and her husband were in Yelapa in early January, almost
two years ago, and were adopted by a little battered dog at Chico's restaurant on the
beach. They quickly took to him and he followed them up to their apartment in the
village where he boarded with them for the week. The Petersons took him in their
shower, cleaned him up, and were very sad to leave him when they had to return
home. They named him "Chico," after the restaurant where they first encountered him.
And last year when they returned for a week in Yelapa, he was nowhere to be found.
They had even brought worming pills and flea powder for him. They couldn't find the
local vet either, so resigned themselves that he probably was in one fight too many.
"After returning home, I couldn't get him out of my mind," Dana Peterson
continued, "so I finally Googled "little white dog Yelapa," and amazingly your story
Guerito appeared as the third item down on the first Google page. So how is that little
charmer?"
Kathy replied that Bobby was doing splendidly, having adapted to the good life
of the coast. He loves riding in the pickup, perched on the armrest between the two
front seats, or curled up on the jumpseat in back. He enjoys walks down to the creek
where he follows his German Shepherd pal Latte splashing across the stream in
summer low water. He was used to swimming the warm river at Yelapa, so it was a
shock when he first encountered the cool stream, but he quickly adapted. It's right
where the town takes its drinking water, so Kathy tells the water manager, "The dogs
and I swam in the creek the other day. You'd better add more chlorine."
The engineer laughs and says, "we add it because of you, not the dogs."
Bobby is a happy coastal dog, but he also thrives in his summer milieu, the
Sierra Nevada, where he instantly becomes a mountain dog, chasing marmots and
ground squirrels over granite outcrops.
Elena and Kathy are almost tempted to take Bobby back to Yelapa for a visit, but
then he might adopt someone else.
daily patrols covered not only the village where he and many like him frequented
Yelapaʼs small cafes and shops, but he also ventured down the steps, crossed the
river, and traversed the sand spit with its palapa cafes and hotel.
The trouble was he only weighed seventeen pounds, and in the beach area there
were fifty-pound black lab, shepherd and mix-breed guardians of the outdoor cafes.
To look at him you could tell that running the gauntlet of the territorials had taken
its toll. His right flank, shoulder and hips had patches where his blond coat no longer
grew, attesting to fights with the larger adversaries. He must have always exposed his
right side; his left side was unscathed. In fact he appeared to be the only part-
Chihuahua on the beach; the rest of his compatriots were content to stay in town and
leave the playa to the big boys.
Yelapa is made up of a sandbar, a stream, and steep forest-covered slopes
where houses, small shops and cantinas are interspersed, then bunched closer
together as the village follows a creek up to its waterfall. In the village and among the
hotels and cafes of the sandbar ranges a floating population of dogs, some of whom
have staked out territories demarcated by collections of white plastic umbrella-shaded
tables, from which crumbs and occasional larger morsels dribble onto the sand. The
smaller the dog, the braver it must be to survive in this melieu.
Thirteen-year-old Elena found him that day panting in the shade of the the hotel
office, blood oozing from a gash in his right hip and another at the front of his ribs. Two
hotel guests said they had heard and seen him being attacked by a black lab on the
sand spit. He had then made his way to the hotel where he sought solace from staff
and guests. Elena and her mom, Kathy had taken a liking to him the day before when
he was much more intact, even hosting him in their room where he exhibited all the
charm that an eight kilogram battle scarred part-Chihuahua could bring to bear. So to
see him in such dire condition demanded action.
The office clerk phoned Pamela Nunez, the only veterinarian in Yelapa, who said
to bring him over right away. Easier said than done; he was hurting badly now and
didnʼt want to be picked up, let alone carried ignominiously past his adversaries, but
there was no choice. Cornered in the office under a chair, he growled and bit at
anyone trying to extricate him. A kindly woman from the yoga group said, ”Iʼm a
healer,” put out her hand and obviously sent the right message because then Elenaʼs
mom was able to lift him and he acquiesced to being carried by her past the beach
guardians, across the river and up the steps to Pamelaʼs clinic.
There the attractive young veterinarian greeted the trio and immediately prepared
for surgery. She asked Elena to hold him while he was sedated and to pinch together
his pulled-apart hide as she first disinfected, then stitched the two wounds. You could
see that the wounds were deep and connected, because as Pamela squirted
disinfectant into one, it seeped out from the other.
“I will keep him here tonight,” the vet explained, “and start him on antibiotics
which he will need to take for thirty days. You can pick him up tomorrow. And please
seriously consider taking him home with you. He will not survive without steady care,
and will just get mauled again if he stays here in Yelapa. I can arrange to have a
certificate of health for him that will permit his transport to the U.S. All you need to do is
to stop at my veterinary friends in Vallarta on the way to the airport. There he can get a
rabies shot and you can obtain a carrier for him to ride on your flight to San Francisco.
How about it?”
Elena looked questioningly at her mom, and she nodded o.k.
A companion dog to their present German shepherd mix, also a rescued dog,
had died a year ago. Now appeared the time to resume their two-dog lifestyle.
“By the way, what do you think his name is?” Elena asked.
“Well, answered Pamela, “I have seen him around town for at least two years and
Iʼm pretty sure I have treated him before. I call him Guerito, little blond.”
“Does he have an owner?ʼ
“Not that I know. He must leave here to survive.”
Asking the hotel staff later, it turned out that there was an owner, but he had
neglected Guerito for at least a year. He tried tying him up. The dog always escaped,
but not before crying piteously. Thus his nickname “Baby.”
When Elena and her mom returned the next day to retrieve him, Pamela wasnʼt
home, Babyʼs cage was open and he was gone. They searched Yelapa, calling, to me
embarrassedly, “Baby,” and he finally appeared from between two houses, ambulatory
and tail wagging. Kathy carried him back to the hotel where began his course of
antibiotics, each pill wrapped in chicken set aside from that dayʼs fajitas.
He spent that night sleeping next to Elena on her bed. But the next day, sporting
two stitched wounds swathed in purple disinfectant, he slipped away, and as they later
found out, to his old haunts in town.
On this latest report of him missing, Pamela put out an all points bulletin on the
Yelapa grapevine for anyone knowing the whereabouts of Guerito a.k.a. Baby, please
notify her. By that afternoon one of the hang-glider pilots had found him by the landing
zone on the sand bar. This time, collared and leashed, he was returned to chickenlaced
confinement. Beginning tomorrow his world would spin with new experiences: a
boat ride, then by taxi through a bustling city, an air journey to a (for him) chilly melieu.
In the morning Baby knew something was up as he watched Kathy empty an
expandable suitcase and line it with a sweatshirt. He complained with growls, nips and
shivers as she tried to place him in the bag tail first. Finally a chicken treat persuaded
Baby to be bagged for the boat ride to Vallarta. Kathy lowered this cargo gently from
the pier into waiting hands in the panga, and despite the hull-slapping trip, Baby
calmed, almost slept in his bag cuddled by Elena on the forty-minute voyage. Ashore
at Playa de los Muertos, led by Elena he trotted happily on-leash on the strand, then
sampled scraps from their breakfast at an open-air cafe.
At the Puerto Vallarta vetsʼ Baby was inoculated against rabies, then outfi tted with
a harness, leash, blue and white polka dot sweater, portable cage and documentation.
Someone remarked he was now “un perro de oro.”
The airport check-in agent accepted Baby in his carrier, stating, “You know this is
a no-frills flight, no meals for people, but weʼll make sure your dog is fed and watered.”
With fingers crossed Elena and Kathy waved goodbye to Baby in his cage as it
moved on the belt through the baggage portal. At the San Francisco airport, there was
no need for trepidation. Baby in his carrier was passed through customs and
immigration without comment.
A day later, Baby had made it safely to Humboldt County and was now content to
stretch asleep on a blanket in front of the wood-burning stove. The chicken treats had
been downgraded to cheese.
Soon they had second thoughts about the name Baby. After all, his medical
certificate listed his breed as “Mixto,” his color ”Miel,” his sex “Macho.” Prolonged
deliberation resulted in modifying Baby to Bobby, and he now patrols the property,
clad in a forest-green Goretex sweater, accompanied by Latte, his female German
Shepherd companion.
Google Dog
A year and a half after Bobby arrived in Humboldt County, Kathy got a call from
a lady who asked, " Am I talking to one of the people who rescued the little white dog
from Yelapa?" With a sinking feeling, Kathy answered "Yes," expecting that the lady
was going to claim Bobby like a birth parent claiming an adopted child. But she was
relieved to hear that Dana Peterson, calling from Minnesota, is pleasant and
complimentary.
Dana said that she and her husband were in Yelapa in early January, almost
two years ago, and were adopted by a little battered dog at Chico's restaurant on the
beach. They quickly took to him and he followed them up to their apartment in the
village where he boarded with them for the week. The Petersons took him in their
shower, cleaned him up, and were very sad to leave him when they had to return
home. They named him "Chico," after the restaurant where they first encountered him.
And last year when they returned for a week in Yelapa, he was nowhere to be found.
They had even brought worming pills and flea powder for him. They couldn't find the
local vet either, so resigned themselves that he probably was in one fight too many.
"After returning home, I couldn't get him out of my mind," Dana Peterson
continued, "so I finally Googled "little white dog Yelapa," and amazingly your story
Guerito appeared as the third item down on the first Google page. So how is that little
charmer?"
Kathy replied that Bobby was doing splendidly, having adapted to the good life
of the coast. He loves riding in the pickup, perched on the armrest between the two
front seats, or curled up on the jumpseat in back. He enjoys walks down to the creek
where he follows his German Shepherd pal Latte splashing across the stream in
summer low water. He was used to swimming the warm river at Yelapa, so it was a
shock when he first encountered the cool stream, but he quickly adapted. It's right
where the town takes its drinking water, so Kathy tells the water manager, "The dogs
and I swam in the creek the other day. You'd better add more chlorine."
The engineer laughs and says, "we add it because of you, not the dogs."
Bobby is a happy coastal dog, but he also thrives in his summer milieu, the
Sierra Nevada, where he instantly becomes a mountain dog, chasing marmots and
ground squirrels over granite outcrops.
Elena and Kathy are almost tempted to take Bobby back to Yelapa for a visit, but
then he might adopt someone else.
Thursday, March 4, 2010
This one was sent to me last night......
My Rescue Dog Tail:
My Rescue Dog Tail:
My seriously abused beagle/Jack Russell/McNabb Sheppard Pound Puppy was placed with a family that could not handle him because he was a "runner." They found me, and Max and I fell in love. But Max still didn't trust me. On our first night together, I put him on his bed by the fireplace and tucked him in. I got a little too close, and he bit my nose. I understood his fear (doggie PTSD) and how much we'd have to work and train together if this was going to work out. If I ever let him off the leash, he'd run off for 1-4 hours! Again...training and building trust.
It was slow, but Max slowly gained my trust. He never bit me again. After about 6 months, Max quit being such a skittish boy. After about a year of training and love, he was willing to snuggle, he quit jumping away at sudden touch and HE RARELY RAN OFF LEASH. All dog owners know that beagles are known for running, so I was impressed with his progress. What really turned things around, however, was what happened about 18 months after I became his person: not only did he seek attention for food, fresh water (he likes a "clean" bowl at all times), pottie, and play, but he began seeking cuddles. He had gained trust enough to go from physical abuse as a puppy to being petted by request as a 2-year-old.
He is now 7 and 1/2 years old, and he is spoiled rotten! He's loved to death by David and I and the grown kids that occasionally pass through the house. His ultimate challenge is to destroy your doggie-proof squeaker toys with the hard rubber. David and I thank you for the hours of squeaking that it takes prior to destruction. Not!
All in all, it's been a tail of patience, love and compassion that has really brought out the best in a great dog!!! And he's brought out the best in me!
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
Rescue Me....
You see them wandering the streets...thin and gaunt as though they haven't eaten in weeks. Maybe a cat showed up on your doorstep looking at you with those sweet almond shaped eyes hoping for a morsel to fill their belly.
Maybe you go to an animal shelter and you see their faces behind cages and wonder what happened. How could they wind up in these circumstances? How could someone turn their back on them? Did they leave on their own as if ending a bad relationship?
In my shop I hear so many stories that tug at your heart...
Here is one:
I was working at an animal shelter as a kennel attendant. I arrived at work at 6:30 am and it was terribly cold. I checked what is known as the "drop box". I find two large dogs huddled together in the same cramped cage. I open the door to the cage and talk to them gently and quietly assuring them that they are in a safe place. They each lean toward me and sniff my hand. The large orange colored chow mix gently licks my hand but declines the treat I am offering. The cream colored dog comes forward and steps out of the cage. The Chow follows. I leash them both up and take them into the heated kennel area and get them into a kennel and place food and water inside. These two really seemed bonded, and probably for quite sometime as they are both pretty old judging by the looks of them. There was plenty of room for the two to share the large kennel run.
They relax during the day as I go on about my duties. I checked in with them as I was closing for the day and assure them I will be back in the morning and hopefully someone will have called looking for them.
I went home that night and thought about my new guests at the shelter. What was their story? Is someone missing them tonight? Did something terrible happen to their owner and they were brought to our shelter for safekeeping? Did I remember to turn the heaters on? I knew it would be cold again tonight...February usually is. Yes; I remind myself I did. The four footed kids will be warm and dry. I breathe a sigh of relief and go to bed.
The next morning I launch into the usual routine and head to the shelter. I flip on the lights to the kennel and with treat bucket in hand I say "Good Morning" to each and every dog and offer a biscuit. I get to the kennel with my two new guests and say "Good Morning you two! Maybe there will be a message on the machine with your owner looking for you!" I notice that the orange Chow mix is visibly shaking and sitting in the corner next to her roommate that's laying down. I ask out loud: "What's wrong, girl?" I step into the kennel and kneel next to the white dog and check her over. It doesn't take long for me to realize she had passed away. I look up into the Chow's eyes and she meets my eyes then turned away. I was overwhelmed by the sorrow that this dog expressed for her fellow canine friend.
In the coming weeks no call ever came, volunteers spent time with who has now been named "Maggie" by one of the volunteers. Still Maggie seemed so lost without her friend. I knew that getting an older dog adopted was going to be difficult if it was to happen at all.
One beautiful sunny day one of the regular volunteers came back with Maggie after their usual walk and wanted to talk to someone about her.
I step up as I know this volunteer really well and ask "what's up?"
"I want to adopt Maggie"
Now...as I said, I know this volunteer really well. She's not a dog person, she's not a cat person....she's not that into animals and I should know. She's my mother, and every stray that I brought home was met with the usual disdain and wanting me to find it another place to live. This is not to say that she didn't like them, she just wasn't that into them.
Something about Maggie changed all that. Maggie had a tough beginning, she was reserved and yet lovable. Her eyes spoke of a certain sadness that made you want to be a better person. Made you want to give her the best in life.
My Mom did that. Maggie is treated to the finest food, regular vet check ups, vacations in Mexico on a sandy beach, many new canine and feline friends.
Maybe you go to an animal shelter and you see their faces behind cages and wonder what happened. How could they wind up in these circumstances? How could someone turn their back on them? Did they leave on their own as if ending a bad relationship?
In my shop I hear so many stories that tug at your heart...
Here is one:
I was working at an animal shelter as a kennel attendant. I arrived at work at 6:30 am and it was terribly cold. I checked what is known as the "drop box". I find two large dogs huddled together in the same cramped cage. I open the door to the cage and talk to them gently and quietly assuring them that they are in a safe place. They each lean toward me and sniff my hand. The large orange colored chow mix gently licks my hand but declines the treat I am offering. The cream colored dog comes forward and steps out of the cage. The Chow follows. I leash them both up and take them into the heated kennel area and get them into a kennel and place food and water inside. These two really seemed bonded, and probably for quite sometime as they are both pretty old judging by the looks of them. There was plenty of room for the two to share the large kennel run.
They relax during the day as I go on about my duties. I checked in with them as I was closing for the day and assure them I will be back in the morning and hopefully someone will have called looking for them.
I went home that night and thought about my new guests at the shelter. What was their story? Is someone missing them tonight? Did something terrible happen to their owner and they were brought to our shelter for safekeeping? Did I remember to turn the heaters on? I knew it would be cold again tonight...February usually is. Yes; I remind myself I did. The four footed kids will be warm and dry. I breathe a sigh of relief and go to bed.
The next morning I launch into the usual routine and head to the shelter. I flip on the lights to the kennel and with treat bucket in hand I say "Good Morning" to each and every dog and offer a biscuit. I get to the kennel with my two new guests and say "Good Morning you two! Maybe there will be a message on the machine with your owner looking for you!" I notice that the orange Chow mix is visibly shaking and sitting in the corner next to her roommate that's laying down. I ask out loud: "What's wrong, girl?" I step into the kennel and kneel next to the white dog and check her over. It doesn't take long for me to realize she had passed away. I look up into the Chow's eyes and she meets my eyes then turned away. I was overwhelmed by the sorrow that this dog expressed for her fellow canine friend.
In the coming weeks no call ever came, volunteers spent time with who has now been named "Maggie" by one of the volunteers. Still Maggie seemed so lost without her friend. I knew that getting an older dog adopted was going to be difficult if it was to happen at all.
One beautiful sunny day one of the regular volunteers came back with Maggie after their usual walk and wanted to talk to someone about her.
I step up as I know this volunteer really well and ask "what's up?"
"I want to adopt Maggie"
Now...as I said, I know this volunteer really well. She's not a dog person, she's not a cat person....she's not that into animals and I should know. She's my mother, and every stray that I brought home was met with the usual disdain and wanting me to find it another place to live. This is not to say that she didn't like them, she just wasn't that into them.
Something about Maggie changed all that. Maggie had a tough beginning, she was reserved and yet lovable. Her eyes spoke of a certain sadness that made you want to be a better person. Made you want to give her the best in life.
My Mom did that. Maggie is treated to the finest food, regular vet check ups, vacations in Mexico on a sandy beach, many new canine and feline friends.
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